‘He is sent here, I understand,’ said Butros Keramy, ‘to ascertain for the Queen of the English whether the country is in favour of the Shehaabs. Could you believe it, but I was told yesterday at Deir el Kamar, that the English consul has persuaded the Queen that even the patriarch was against the Shehaabs?’ ‘Is it possible?’ said Rafael Farah, a Maronite of the House of Eldadah. ‘It must be the Druses who circulate these enormous falsehoods.’ ‘Hush!’ said Young Syria, in the shape of Francis El Kazin, ‘there is no longer Maronite or Druse: we are all Syrians, we are brothers.’ ‘Then a good many of my brothers are sons of Eblis,’ said Butros Keramy. ‘I hope he is not my father.’ ‘Truly, I should like to see the mountain without the Maronite nation,’ said Rafael Farah. ‘That would be a year without rain.’ ‘And mighty things your Maronite nation has done!’ rejoined Francis El Kazin. ‘If there had been the Syrian nation instead of the Maronite nation, and the Druse nation, and half a dozen other nations besides, instead of being conquered by Egypt in 1832, we should have conquered Egypt ourselves long ago, and have held it for our farm. We have done mighty things truly with our Maronite nation!’ ‘To hear an El Kazin speak against the Maronite nation!’ exclaimed Rafael Farah, with a look of horror; ‘a natipn that has two hundred convents!’ ‘And a patriarch,’ said Butros Keramy, ‘very much respected even by the Pope of Rome.’ ‘And who were disarmed like sheep,’ said Francis. ‘Not because we were beaten,’ said Butros, who was brave enough. ‘We were persuaded to that,’ said Rafael. ‘By our monks,’ said Francis; ‘the convents you are so proud of.’ ‘They were deceived by sons of Eblis,’ said Butros. ‘I never gave up my arms. I have some pieces now, that, although they are not as fine as those of the English prince, could pick a son of Eblis off behind a rock, whether he be Egyptian or Druse.’ ‘Hush!’ said Francis El Kazin. ‘You love our host, Butros; these are not words that will please him----’ ‘Or me, my children,’ said Bishop Nicodemus. ‘This is a great day for Syria! to find the chiefs of both nations assembled at the castle of a Shehaab. Why am I here but to preach peace and love? And Butros Keramy, my friend, my dearly beloved brother Butros, if you wish to please the patriarch, your uncle, who loves you so well, you will no longer call Druses sons of Eblis.’ ‘What are we to call them?’ asked Rafael Farah, pettishly. ‘Brothers,’ replied Bishop Nicodemus; ‘misguided, but still brothers. This is not a moment for brawls, when the great Queen of the English has sent hither her own brother to witness the concord of the mountain.’